


the gods have fashioned us for love

by sansaswildlinglover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, Period blood, Smut, Time Skips, but not in a sexual situation fyi, but yeah Sansa is still breastfeeding and you know what happens when nipples are stimulated, minor Jonerys, minor Jongritte, minor sansa/harry, minor sansaery, mix of book and showverse, not enough to call it a kink, soulmarks are erogenous zones if touched by the right person, there's also a little lactation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: For which is worse?To have a name on your breast, an impossible name, lethal and leaving a deep hole inside of you, knowing the soul bound to yours had left this world before you were even born, that your song had ended before it had even begun?Or not have a name at all, never knowing whether it might one day appear, the uncertainty of it always feeding that doubt, your fear of not belonging, the bitter knowledge there will never be anything or anyone in this world you can call your own?Written for Jonsa: A Dream of Spring, Day 4: soulmates





	the gods have fashioned us for love

Sansa had never been particularly fond of Old Nan’s stories. They were dark and filled with the ugly creatures of winter. She much preferred the tales of summer, splendid and bright and regaling the heroic lives of knights and ladies.

She pursed her lips at the sight of her siblings’ eager faces after Nan’s announcement she was about to tell a most sad and terrible tale. Fortunately for her they were all too enraptured by the old woman’s promise to notice their sister’s slight show of disapproval.

Her fingers tightened around her needle, annoyed at her own slip, and she risked a glance at Jeyne Poole next to her, but she was too busy making eyes at Theon Greyjoy, who was polishing a dagger with a gilded kraken pommel, and flashed her a cocky grin when he caught her looking.

Sansa had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at their antics. She did hope they would all be on their best behaviour when the King was set to arrive in a fortnight. It would be absolutely dreadful if the Queen got the impression that the people at Winterfell resembled a bunch of uncultured wildlings.

She tried to focus on her needlework again, but found herself distracted by Nan’s creaking voice, and despite herself, she started listening to the old woman’s story.

Later that night, she lay in bed, staring at the canopy, too excited to sleep. "Soulmates," she whispered to herself, quite breathless from conjuring up all the ways she might meet hers.

"When will I receive my soulmark?" she'd asked Nan after the old woman had finished her story.

Her answer had been: "When you flower, child."

Theon had laughed at Jon's inquiry as to when he would get his, asking him whether he hadn't bled yet. Sansa'd sniffed in disapproval, but she hadn't dared reprimand Theon, though the stormy look on Jon's face had alarmed her.

Her Lady Mother had entered the room then, to put the little ones to bed, and her half-brother had never received an answer to his question. Perhaps that was for the best, she couldn't imagine any lady wanting a bastard for her soulmate.

 

 

King Robert came North, Sansa went south, her Lord Father lost his head, and she forgot all about soulmates. 

 

 

Her nightmares often left her sweaty and panting, but although the images in her dreams had been much the same, today was different. Her hair and nightrail were sticking to her damp skin as usual, and the dull headache was not unfamiliar either, but the pain her lower back was, and so was the stickiness on the insides of her thighs.

When she sat up, she felt a gush of warm liquid. She threw back the covers and rucked up her nightrail, discovering bright red splotches on her pale skin and a darker stain on the bedclothes. She squirmed away, kicking at the covers, almost falling headfirst to the ground as she struggled to get out of the bed. She ended up on her hands and knees, half slouched against the side of the bed, heart hammering in her chest.

_No. No, no , no. No!_

She pushed herself to her feet, panting as she darted over to the washing basin, picking up and soaking a rag in the water to scrub the stick red from her thighs. The water was pink by the time she'd cleaned up all the blood, and when she returned to the bed the stain on the sheets was glaring at her. 

Her maids found her hacking at the mattress with the knife she used to cut her meat. She sobbed as they dragged her away, her thighs bloody again. 

Hours later, when Cersei had instructed her on her entrance into womanhood, and when she'd been returned to her chambers, she noticed the itch on the skin of her left breast. She rubbed at it lightly through the fabric of her bodice, remembering it was unseemly for a lady to scratch herself, even though she was alone, but the itch wouldn't stop.

When she unlaced the top of her dress and shift to look at the itchy red blotch, it started burning. For the second time that day, she ran to her water basin, hoping cool water might ease the sting. She dabbed at the wound with a rag, and when it stopped burning, she uncovered it to see two words written an inch above her nipple.

A story long forgotten returned to her, and she clasped a hand over her mouth as the realization hit her. She had received her soulmark.  _What if it's Joffrey's name?_ Would the gods have such a cruel faith in store for her?

She twisted her neck so she could read the letters curling on her breast. Sansa could have wept for a thousand reasons at once. The bright red letters on her pale skin spelled out the name _Aegon Targaryen_.

 

 

Things were better for Sansa after Margaery Tyrell arrived in King's Landing. Having Joffrey announce the end of their betrothal so he could wed the Tyrell girl had only brought her joy. And for the first time since her father had lost his head, she thought she might have a friend again, a real friend.

Margaery was everything a proper lady ought to be. She was beautiful and courteous, beloved by the courtiers and the smallfolk alike, and she always knew the right thing to say or do, and she was sweet, brave and strong, like a lady in a song.

Sansa found herself thinking about the older girl all the time, remembering her smiles and the scent of her silky chestnut hair, how slender and regal she looked in all the lovely gowns she'd brought from Highgarden. She wanted to be just like her.

Having Margaery around was like having a sister again, but a true sister this time. She'd never known having a sister would make her heart swell and her stomach flutter. 

Margaery never slept alone. She always had one of her cousins or other ladies sharing her bed, and Sansa was delighted when the Tyrell girl decided to invite her over for the night. She knew, however, that Margaery was being too bold.

"Oh no," she told her. "You mustn't! Queen Cersei will not allow it!"

Margaery took her hand. "You forget, my dearest Sansa, that I am to be queen. Cersei Lannister can't tell me what to do."

"You are too kind. You shouldn't." Sansa shook her head. "I have traitor's blood. It wouldn't be wise for you to..." She let the rest of her words trail off, certain Margaery was smart enough to catch on.

She squeezed her hand. "I insist," she countered, offering Sansa her brightest smile. She couldn't say no to that. 

Sansa had butterflies in her tummy as she sat down next to Margaery on the four-poster-bed draped in green and gold. It was just like sharing a bed with Jeyne, and yet it felt different. They'd eaten lemon cakes together, and shared a cup of sweet wine as they gossiped about the people at court. Sansa had been scandalized by some of Margaery's comments, but she'd giggled despite her flushed cheeks.

"Have you ever kissed a girl?" Margaery asked her suddenly.

For a moment, her gaze fell on the other girl's pink rosebud mouth, but she quickly averted her eyes. "Why would I want to kiss a girl?" she mumbled, risking a glance at Margaery's face. Her brown eyes were wide and innocent.

"Because you want to," she shrugged. "Or because you want to practise kissing."

"Practise kissing?" Sansa asked.

She hummed in affirmation. "Do you wish to be married someday?"

Sansa bit her lip and nodded.

"You'll want to know how to kiss your husband, right?" She tilted her head, brushing a curl away from Sansa's face. "Can I kiss you, sweet girl?"

She nodded again.

The brush of Margaery's soft lips was gentle and tentative at first, but when Sansa started responding, she grew bolder. She tasted like the lemon cakes they'd devoured earlier and she gasped in delight when Sansa tried to suck the flavour from her tongue. She nipped at her bottom lip in response, licking it to soothe the sting. They kissed until they were both breathless.

When they finally parted, Margaery whispered: "That was glorious. We should rest now."

Sansa lay awake for a long time after that, trying to catch her breath and process what had just happened, still wondering at the odd ache inside of her as the other girl's soft snores started filling the room. 

Margaery was already awake when Sansa opened her eyes and she was staring at her, her mouth agape. 

Sansa glanced down and realized the strap of her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder, revealing the name on her breast. She quickly pulled it up again.

"Don't fret," she muttered. "Aegon Targaryen is dead. You  _will_ be queen, I won't do any treason."

"Yes," she whispered. "Aegon is long dead. What a sad fate, sweetling." She looked at her as if she'd just learned Sansa was about to die. Reluctantly she told her that those whose soulmate had died were considered cursed.

 

"I wish we could stay in this cave forever, Jon Snow," Ygritte sighed as she put her head on his chest. She looked softer like this, and her tenderness surprised him.

"Perhaps we should." Perhaps they _should_ forget about everyone and everything out there, stay in this cave, where it was just them, and vows and allegiances and wars didn't matter. He didn't know if he loved Ygritte, but he thought he could, and perhaps this would be the only way they could defy the rest of the world.

He'd searched his body earlier, in the light of the torches they had carried in. No mark had appeared on his skin since he'd met Ygritte. He wasn't sure he had been expecting to find one, whether he even wanted to find one, but he had still felt disappointed.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" he asked her.

She twisted her neck, bracing herself on her elbow to look at his face. "Why, would you like to see your name on my arse, Jon Snow?" she drawled at him with a smirk.

"What? Err… No," he muttered. "I mean..."

She giggled, nuzzling at his chest before meeting his gaze again, arching an eyebrow.

"You don't have a soulmark," he observed.

"You had yourself a good look then, did ya?"

"I had more than just a look," he reminded her, grabbing her by the waist to pull her on top of him. 

"No," she told him as she inclined her head to kiss him. "I don't have a soulmark."

"Doesn't that"--he hissed as she reached down to wrap her fingers around his hardening length--"Doesn't that bother you?"

"No, Jon Snow" she moaned as she slid down on him. "It doesn't. I'm a free woman, I won’t let the gods decide my fate. I make my own choices"

He groaned even as her words brought a smile to his face. She was right. He decided in that moment that he did love her, even if he shouldn’t, and apparently that was all his own doing, not some mysterious plan made up by the gods.

****

There had been a time when Sansa thought she'd never escape King's Landing. And after that she had feared she would be forever trapped with Petyr. Although he was still around, since her wedding to Harrold Hardyng, she was mostly safe from him.

Being married to Harry wasn't that bad. He was always courteous to her, treated her gently and respected her wishes, and he'd been willing to take her home almost immediately.

Sansa knew he'd agreed to marry her for her claim and that his eagerness to march North was because of his desire to become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He'd kneeled for her, offering her his sword and a promise to win Winterfell back for her, but Sansa knew that life was not a song. 

Harry was a good husband, and he was handsome, with his blond hair and dimpled smiles. Sansa thought she might learn to love him.

After all, her parents hadn't even known each other when they had been married, but they had built their love stone by stone, over the years. Perhaps that would be possible for her and Harry as well.

They had arrived in White Harbour before midday, and Lord Manderly had received them with all the proper courtesies, he'd spared no expense for the welcoming feast.

Harry entered the bedroom as Sansa sat brushing out her hair. He came to stand behind her, bracing one hand on the back of the chair and using the other to brush her hair aside so he could kiss her neck.

"Come to bed," he rasped into her ear. 

He removed his doublet and kicked off his boots, unlacing and shoving his breeches down.

Sansa had already taken her gown off earlier and she rose to close the distance between them. She pushed herself up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him.

Once she would have considered it improper, but Harry had assured her a man liked to know that his wife wanted him. 

He splayed his hands on her back and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. She rubbed her thighs together as she could feel his hardening length against her belly.

He fisted his hands into the fabric of her shift and started bunching it up. She froze in his embrace.

He hadn't pressured her when she'd refused to take off her shift on their wedding night, and it had only stung for a couple of moments when he had taken her maidenhead, he had been gentle with her throughout their entire first bedding.

They'd left the Vale the next day. They'd coupled on the journey North, once in an inn, and twice in a tent, and even a couple of times in their cabin on the ship, but they had never been able to properly undress for it. Harry had never seen her naked before.

"What's wrong?" he asked her.

She realized she couldn't hide this from him forever. "Promise you won't be cross with me?"

He frowned, but nodded.

She reached for the hem of her shift and pulled it over her head, resisting the urge to cover her breasts with her arms.

Sansa spotted the moment the desire in his eyes shifted to revulsion, or fear perhaps, she couldn't be sure. Pain, she decided, as he clutched his arm, pulling the sleeve of his tunic down.

Sansa's eyes were too quick and he was standing too close to the candles on the table. Her own name was written on his arm. It hadn't been there on their wedding night.

Hesitantly, she reached for him. "I’m sorry," she whispered, but he was already collecting his clothes and heading for the door.

They tried to reconcile after that night, but there was little time for them to be together as they rallied the Northern houses to their cause.

 

 

Harry died in the Battle for Winterfell, killed by Ramsay Bolton himself with one well-aimed arrow. Sansa mourned him, and what could have been between them, but she was distracted from her grief by an unexpected reunion.

She hadn't been the only one fighting for Winterfell. It was odd that she only really felt home again in Jon Snow's embrace. It was sweet to see him again, as if a burden had fallen off her shoulders, as if she could finally breathe again.

He held her hand as she lit Harry's pyre, and he held her hair when her morning sickness started a sennight after the battle.

She came to his chambers when his nightmares haunted him at night, brushing his hair from his face as she sang him back to sleep.

She stood beside him when the Lords declared him King in the North, and she helped him prepare the North for the coming winter.

Winterfell was still in ruins, and rebuilding the North after the Bolton rule was tough, but Sansa felt confident they could do it. Jon was her courage now. She didn't have to face the world alone anymore.

Sometimes he would look at her in a way that made her blush, that made desire coil low in her belly, but she ignored those glances, telling herself she must be imagining them. Jon was her brother, even if he was only her half-brother, she knew that wouldn't make any difference to him.

Jon stayed with her until she gave birth to her son. Little Ned already had Harry's dimples, and the little tuft of hair on his head was a reddish gold, but when Jon held him in arms, staring at him with wonder in his eyes, Sansa was overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him.

She pushed those feelings down again, let herself be distracted by her little boy and by her duties as the Lady of Winterfell. She cried when he left her to go south to treat with the Dragon Queen, but he had promised he'd return to her.  

 

 

Daenerys' eyes were searching his naked body as they lay next to each other, and he didn't need to ask what she was looking for.

Daenerys Targaryen believed in destiny, and she loved the idea of finding her soulmate. She didn't have a soulmark anymore, her brother had burned it off her skin in a fit of rage and jealousy when she had only been thirteen. She'd never even seen the name on her shoulderblade.

Her name hadn’t appeared anywhere on his skin after he'd spilled his seed on her belly, he'd never expected it to. He had come to accept that he’d never have anyone’s name written on his skin. It suited him, the gods would never give a soulmate to a nameless bastard with no place to call his own in the world.

He'd dreamed about it once, and lately, in the most deprived corners of his mind, he _had_ hoped for one certain name, but that could never be. He wouldn't think of her here, even if part of him couldn't help but wish it would be her who was lying beside him right now.

His half-sister's name would never appear on his skin, but neither would Daenerys'. He knew how it worked now, Satin had told him, back at Castle Black. He'd seen many people with the wrong name on their skins.

He'd heard of cases where two souls were bound by hate instead of love and became mortal enemies or one of them ended up killing the other. Fortunately that wouldn't be the case between him and Daenerys.

The guilt crept up on him for feeling relieved when disappointment was so clearly written on her face. She wanted all of him, that much was clear. He hoped he could keep her satisfied with what little he could give her.

 

 

 ****Sansa came to him in the Godswood. He'd been avoiding all of them for days, and though they were all equally stubborn, he wasn't surprised it would be her who found him here. With her pale skin and her red hair, she almost looked like a weirwood herself.

After that first sleepless night, when he'd needed to be alone and contemplate all that had happened in the light of this new knowledge, trying to make sense of it all, he  _had_ wanted comfort and a shoulder to cry on, but he couldn't fathom how to look them in the eye, knowing he was not who they'd thought he was.

"Bran told me," she whispered, as she came to stand beside him.

Perhaps that should make him angry. It wasn't his secret to tell, but then again, Bran had his own reasons for making the decisions he made, which were difficult to understand. Instead he felt relieved. He was not sure he could have found the words to tell her.

"You're still Jon," she said as she reached for his hand. "You're still my family."

He smiled as she squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, hoping it was enough to show her he was grateful for her words.

"You were wrong though," he sighed. "I'm not a Stark. I don't belong here."

Her free hand flew up to cup his cheek, steering his gaze to her face. She looked radiant in her fierce determination, the strength of a wolf disguised by her pretty Tully feautures. True beauty, but iron underneath. 

"You are," she told him. "You do."

"No, Sansa."

"You do belong here," she insisted.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," he snapped, pulling away from her touch. 

"Aegon Targaryen," she chuckled.

He glared at the amused look on her face. "I don't want to be Aegon Targaryen!"

"I know," she muttered, and his anger deflated at seeing the sad look in her blue eyes. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and the sight was awfully distracting.  _Not your sister_ , an annoying voice whispered. 

She called his name, a little louder than necessary. "Jon, did you hear me?"

"Sorry, what?" he asked.

"There's something I need to show you. But I can't do it here." She licked her lips, nervously wringing her hands together.

He frowned in confusion, but decided to humour her.

When they arrived in her chambers, he took off his cloak and draped it over a chair. She followed his example and asked him to give her a moment. He removed his gloves and pulled at the collar of his jerkin. It was too hot in here.

He was even more puzzled when she disappeared behind the screen that protected part of the room from his sight. He stood there swinging his fist back and forth, waiting for her, breathing in the warm yet flowery scent of her bedroom. 

When she emerged from behind the screen, she was wearing a blue bedrobe, and her hands were clenched around the ends of the sash holding it together. 

"Come into the light," she told him.

Still confused, he followed her request. She was worrying her teeth over her bottom lip again.  _Gods,_ he desperately needed her to stop.

"You wanted to show me something?" he asked.

She nodded, pursing her lips, and started untying the sash of her bedrobe.

"Sansa, what?" he took a step back, fearing he must have stumbled into a dream. He averted his eyes, balling his hands into fists and trying to control his breathing.

"You need to look, Jon," she whispered.

He glanced up, trying to keep his eyes on her face, but she arched an eyebrow, pointing her chin down. Even in this moment, it was difficult for him to admit he'd dreamed of seeing her like this.

Her hair fell around her shoulders like a halo, illuminated by the fire, and she was all alabaster skin and soft curves. His eyes followed the dip and flare of her waist and hips, resting on the bright red curls at the apex of her thighs.

Up they went again, over the soft pouch and silvery lines that remained from her pregnancy and up to her breasts, still heavy with milk. And then he saw what she was trying to show him, right above one of her red nipples, sprawled across her creamy flesh in his own handwriting, was his birthname:  _Aegon Targaryen._

He took a step closer, and reached out to touch the mark, glancing up at her eyes for permission.

"Oh," she gasped as his fingertip brushed over the red letters. "That felt nice."

"Aye?" he asked, holding her gaze.

She nodded. "Like a tingle, em..." It was hard to tell in the glow from the fire, but he thought her cheeks were flushed.

He repeated the motion, watching her face. She licked her lips, and her nipples pebbled. He knew it wasn't from the cold.

He brushed his knuckles over his name, and she jerked away, her thighs squirming together. 

"I think you should stop," she sighed breathlessly. 

She was right. This was dangerous. They were playing with fire. He couldn't afford to give in to his desires.

Still, he met her darkened eyes and asked: "Do you wish for me to stop?"

"No," she confessed. 

"I want you," he groaned.

" _Gods,"_ she whimpered as his calloused palm made contact with her hardened nipple. "I want you, too."

He cupped her breast, his other hand curled around her neck and then he was kissing her. 

She responded eagerly, tangling her hands in his hair, and he swallowed her delicious mewls as he licked into her sweet, wine-laced mouth. He trailed his lips down, down, down, tasting every inch of her skin, lapping up the milk that trickled from her breasts on his way down, until he was finally facing her mound.

He groaned as her musky scent hit him, and she blinked down at him. "Jon, what?"

"Can I taste you?" he asked her, nuzzling her curls.

There was uncertainty in her eyes, but she nodded. He parted her lips with his fingers and gently kissed her nub. He licked a stripe up her slit, one hand reaching for her hips to keep her steady, the other flying back up to her soulmark.

He was already half-hard for her, and with every swipe of his tongue he grew harder. He closed his lips over her pearl and sucked, and she fell apart against his mouth, thighs quivering, and sighing his name. "Oh, Jon."

He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down on top of the furs to remove his clothes. As he climbed onto the bed after her, she turned onto her side and pressed her body up against his. 

"I want you," he panted, tangling a hand in her fiery hair. 

"Yes." She kissed him, and he groaned at the knowledge she'd be able to taste herself. As she flicked her tongue up to the roof of his mouth, she slipped her hand down between them, wrapping her fingers around his length. 

"I want you inside me," she whimpered as he bucked into her hand.

That was all it took for him to flip her over and roll on top of her. His mouth latched onto a nipple, sweetness coating his tongue, and her back arched off the bed, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. 

She opened her legs for him and he took himself in hand to enter her. He tried to go slow, but she was wet and he was eager, and it only took one smooth thrust until he was fully sheathed. 

She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he slid in even deeper. Being inside her was like heaven and home all wrapped up into one. He started moving and he already needed to squeeze his eyes shut, measuring his breaths to keep some sense of control.

He'd never felt anything like this before. He could stay inside of her forever, and yet, he was already getting close. One arm slipped under her back to pull her even closer and he took her hand to lace their fingers together, nuzzling her cheek.

She was so unbelievably hot and tight, fitting him as if she was made for him. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips and grunted: "You feel so good, Sansa. I won't last long."

She speared her fingers into his hair. "I don't care," her answer fanned against his cheek in a hot breath, followed by a press of her lips trailing back to his mouth until she could suck on his bottom lip. "I just want you to love me."

Her fingers tightened in his curls, pulling pricks of pleasure-pain from his skull, and he surrendered to the squeeze and pull of her wet heat and let his body take over.  She was all around him, but still he wanted to get closer. 

He buried his face in her neck, and breathed her in, his ragged panting falling into rhythm with his thrusts, almost drowning out her little moans and cries. Her hands left his hair, travelling down his back and cupping an arse cheek.

His hips bucked, and her teeth caught his earlobe, flicking her tongue against it as the nails on his arse dug into his flesh, her fingers pushing him deeper into her. 

Waves of pleasure overwhelmed him as her walls started clenching and fluttering around him, and as her head fell back and a high-pitched moan left her mouth, his hips snapped and stuttered as he found his release deep inside of her. 

He almost collapsed on top of her, bracing himself on an arm to move his weight so he wouldn't crush her. 

They lay together in silence for a while, only exchanging a soft kiss, or brushing a sweaty strand of hair out of the other's face.

He leaned in for another kiss and felt her smile against his lips, but then a sharp pain stung his right arse cheek. He wondered if Sansa's nails had drawn blood earlier, when the spot started burning and he hissed.

"What is it?" she asked.

The burn lessened to an itch, but in the position he was in, he couldn't reach it to scratch it. He pushed himself off her, but she sat up to find the source of his discomfort.

To his chagrin, she laughed, and then reached out to brush her fingers over the painful spot. It felt good.

"Do that again?" he asked her.

She did, and at first it soothed the itch and the sting, but after a while heat started to coil in his groin.

"What?" he asked, shaking his head.

"It's your mark," she told him, with the most radiant smile he had ever seen. "My name."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I basically wrote this entire story for that one scene where Sansa's name appears on Jon's ass djjkfjkgjkdfgj


End file.
